From Sand and Ash(101)

The commander took a deep drag off his cigarette and released the smoke slowly as he eyed Angelo. Then he nodded, as if he’d made up his mind and was at ease with his decision. “We have an army transport leaving for France in three days. You’ll be on it. We’ll find enough work to keep you busy, and you’ll probably wish you’d never signed on. The 20th Armored Division just arrived in the south of France. They’ll be working their way up quickly to the border between France and Germany. That’s the best I can do for you, Father. Godspeed.”



“I’m coming with you,” Mario said firmly.

“Mario, no. No, you aren’t.” Angelo had walked down the steps of St. Peter’s Basilica to see Mario waiting just beyond the gates, an army duffel bag on his back and determination in his eyes.

“I’m a doctor. They will take me. I don’t speak very good English, but you do. You’re an American, after all. Together, we can do this. I’m a doctor; you’re a medic. A spiritual medic. God’s medic.” He smiled and shrugged.

“Ah, yes. I’m saving souls right and left,” Angelo said with a self-deprecating smile. His duties the last few months had been of the temporal nature. Food, shelter, safety. He hadn’t performed any of the more sacred rites because he felt unworthy to do so, committed as he was to leaving the priesthood behind if he found Eva.

“I’m coming with you,” Mario repeated.

“Mario, you have a wife and three children who have been through hell. You are finally free to resume your lives. They need you. You have to think of them.”

“Giulia agrees with me. She and the children will stay at the convent, and I will send them my stipend every month. They are safe, and Giulia has help. I’m not a soldier. I won’t be fighting. I will be saving lives and getting paid to do it. And if that fails, I’ll join the Red Cross. I have spent the war hiding while my people are being slaughtered. This is my way of making a difference, of fighting back. I don’t have a job—”

“You could find one! If something happened to you, Mario, I would never forgive myself. The world can’t afford to lose any more Jewish men. The world can’t afford to lose a man like you, period. Don’t make me carry that weight,” Angelo interrupted.

“If I don’t come with you, I won’t ever forgive myself. Eva Rosselli sat with her back to my door, her legs braced against the wall, while the Gestapo shot through it. She single-handedly saved my entire family. And she has been taken. Signora Donati, my neighbor, faced down men with machine guns to inform them that my apartment was empty, that no one lived there anymore. She was taken too. I’ve watched you put yourself at risk over and over. I’ve watched you scramble and maneuver and work to keep hundreds of Jews safe. You were beaten and sent to die, and you could have talked. You could have exposed us. But you didn’t.

“I have been forced to let all of you sacrifice for me and my family. I had to. But not anymore. It’s my turn. I intend to be there when those camps are liberated. It’s my turn to save lives. I’m coming with you, Angelo. And you can’t stop me.”





13 December, 1944


Confession: I couldn’t part with Eva’s violin.



I have walked through France with a violin case on my back. Everyone asks me to play, and when I tell them I can’t, they look at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. I left everything else, including the three remaining journals, with the nuns at Santa Cecilia. But I couldn’t leave her violin. Eva will want to play it again when I find her.

The soldiers think I’m a strange one. My clerical collar is confusing enough. I wear it with a standard-issue uniform instead of a cassock. All the chaplains dress like soldiers, for the most part. I think Mario told a few of them my story in an effort to quiet speculation, because now they all seem to know that the violin I can’t play belongs to the girl I’m looking for. But Mario doesn’t speak very good English, so who knows what rumors he may have started.

Still, the teasing has lessened considerably and everyone now calls me Father Angelo. A few of the guys call me Angel Baby, but nicknames are pretty standard around here and seem to communicate a certain amount of affection. In some ways, it’s like being in the seminary again—only with guns, less food, and frozen blisters. On the bright side, having only one leg means only one case of trench foot.

There is a hymn that talks about rescuing “a soul so rebellious and proud as mine.” It’s a Protestant hymn my mother sang a long time ago. I heard a soldier singing it last night in the non-denominational church service I organized for the division. I don’t mean to be sacrilegious, but I am convinced my rebellious soul is the only thing keeping me from defeat, and I don’t want to be rescued from it.

It’s been almost four months since I left Rome. Close to nine months since I saw Eva last. Now, without explanation, instead of continuing north into Germany, we are being sent east to Luxembourg, and it’s all I can do not to abandon my unit and set off on my own. I can only pray Eva’s soul is as rebellious as mine.

Angelo Bianco





CHAPTER 25


BELGIUM


The cold was relentless, and the cotton candy comparison made by a soldier was apt, but if the fog was like being immersed in white spun sugar, the cold was like living in a vat of ice cream with none of the sweetness and none of the pleasure. Rumors of the coldest winter on record were being bandied about, and Angelo was convinced it must be true. He may have been born in New Jersey, but he was acclimated to Florence and Rome, and though both were cold in winter, neither were the Ardennes. He’d never been so cold or miserable in his whole life. He did his best not to think of Eva in a camp in Northern Germany or the temperatures and conditions she would be enduring. The thought made him grit his teeth and avoid a word of complaint. He was making deals with God right and left. Keep Eva alive. Keep her safe, and he would suffer whatever he had to suffer in exchange.